fragrant atmosphere. "'Tis sure a fine world we're in."

"Aye, 'tis fine enough now," remarked Ed, stopping to cut pieces from
a plug of tobacco, and then cramming them into his pipe. "But," he
continued, prophetically, as he struck a match and held it between his
hands for the sulphur to burn off, "bide a bit, an' you'll find it
ugly enough when th' snows blow t' smother ye, an' yer racquets sink
with ye t' yer knees, and th' frost freezes yer face and the ice
sticks t' yer very eyelashes until ye can't see--then," continued he,
puffing vigorously at his pipe, "then 'tis a sorry world--aye, a sorry
an' a hard world for folks t' make a livin' in."

It was mid-forenoon when they reached Rabbit Island--a small wooded
island where the passing dog drivers always stop in winter to make tea
and snatch a mouthful of hard biscuit while the dogs have a half
hour's rest.

"An' here we'll boil th' kettle," suggested Dick. "I'm fair starved
with an early breakfast and the pull at the oars."

"We're ready enough for that," assented Bill. "Th' wind's prickin' up
a bit from th' east'rd, an' when we starts I thinks we may hoist the
sails."

"Yes, th' wind's prickin' up an' we'll have a fair breeze t' help us
past th' Traverspine, I hopes."

The landing was made. Bob and Ed each took an axe to cut into suitable
lengths some of the plentiful dead wood lying right to hand, while
Dick whittled some shavings and started the fire. Bill brought a